Сандра Браун - Thick as Thieves

“Well, we’ll have to remedy that.” Now that he’d reestablished that they were accomplices and had regained Foster’s shrinking trust, he needed to reel him in. “This is a great spot to have all kinds of fun.”

“Like what?”

“If I confide, you won’t tattletell, will you?”

“No.”

“Me and my buddies come here and get stoned out of our minds.”

“Oh.”

“Next time, you’ll have to join us.” He hitched his head. “Those picnic tables? Great for making out on, if you remember to bring a quilt. But even if you don’t. This girl Crystal?” Rusty smacked his lips. “Too many times to count, my friend.”

“Crystal?”

At Foster’s surprised tone, Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, Crystal. Why?”

“It’s just that I overheard some of the women in the office talking about a Crystal. One’s son has a crush on her, but she said she told him that he had just as well stop pining. He doesn’t stand a chance with her because of Ledge Burnet.”

Rusty ground his teeth. “Him and Crystal are over. She’s with me now. Anyhow, enough of that. We’d better get moving. Watch your step as you get in.”

“Get in? In the canoe?”

“I found a perfect spot to hide the bag.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Trees are so close together over there, you feel like Daniel Fucking Boone. You should’ve worn different shoes.”

“Is there a road leading to it?”

“Sure. We’re on it. It’s what we locals call a boat road.”

“I don’t like the sound of that. What about a regular road?”

“It’s a wilderness, Foster. A fucking swamp. That’s what makes it an ideal hiding place.”

Foster took an anxious look around. “Trees are dense on this side, too. And it has access to the road. Why not hide it over here? Temporarily, at least. It would be easier to get to in case we have to move it again.”

“Also easier for somebody to find. Accidentally. Like I said, people come here to use the picnic tables. All we need is for some potheads to find this bag of cash and make off with it. Or a do-gooder who would hand it over to the law.”

“I’ve never seen anybody else around. Not once in all the times we’ve met out here.”

The accountant had acquired some courage, plus developed a stubborn streak, and both were beginning to grate. Had he taken a damn tonic or something? Rusty let his irritation show. He stood up, standing with legs straddling the bench so as not to tip the canoe. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing. I just think we need to think this through a little bit more.”

“I’ve thought it through.”

Foster flipped the flashlight back on and slid the beam along the side of the canoe from bow to stern. “Where’d you get the canoe?”

“That old tin shed at the boat dock down the road? Sheriff’s office uses it to stow boats they’ve impounded for one reason or another. Usually because somebody was operating a craft while intoxicated.

“Anyway, whoever the offender was who owned this canoe never reclaimed it, so my daddy gave me permission to take it out whenever I want.” He was still holding the paddle and motioned with it for Foster to get in. “I know what I’m doing. Don’t be scared. Climb into the bow there.”

Foster didn’t move. He just stood there, then blurted, “I called Mr. Maxwell and told him everything.”

Rusty’s blood surged from normal temperature to an instant boil. “Come again?”

“You heard me. I don’t need to repeat it. Mr. Maxwell knows you intend to set him up as our scapegoat.”

Rusty didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think about it, just reacted with a burst of uncontrollable rage. He cut a horizontal arc with the paddle. Had it been a blade, it would have decapitated Foster. As it was, it struck him in the neck with such force, Rusty was sure it had crushed his windpipe. He dropped the flashlight, grabbed his throat with both hands, and attempted to make a sound. What issued from him was painful to hear.

Rusty watched calmly as Foster staggered forward a few steps before toppling facedown into the murky water amid an intricate, knobby sculpture of cypress knees, then lay still. Perfectly still.

The flashlight had landed in a few inches of water. It was still on, creating an unnatural underwater glow that was downright eerie. It even spooked Rusty a little, but he didn’t retrieve the flashlight. Better to leave it.

It had been his plan all along to kill Brian Foster. No way in hell would he have lived through the night. However, Rusty hadn’t planned to do it here, where his body could be so easily discovered by someone on an Easter outing.

Upon reflection, though, this unexpected turn of events wasn’t all that unfortunate. In fact, it was better than what he had originally planned to do, which was to canoe to one of the deepest parts of the lake, whack Foster in the head with the paddle, and dump him.

He realized now the flaws in that plan. Once the body gassed up and resurfaced, a medical examiner would have determined that it had been a homicide. Of course nobody would ever suspect the sheriff’s son of committing murder, but it would have created a hubbub that Rusty would rather do without.

This way, it would appear to have been a fatal accident. That would be an easy sell. Foster was new to the area. He was from up north someplace, had never experienced swampy terrain. He’d stupidly left his car on the road and walked—in wingtip shoes, for crissake—into the forest at night, completely unaware of the hazards it and the wetlands represented. The dumb schmuck had stumbled, crushed his windpipe when he fell, knocked himself unconscious, and drowned, his flashlight still on.

No relocating or disposing of his body was necessary. Leaving him where he’d died was much more efficient and less strenuous. He could simply paddle away. Which also saved time. Because now he had the additional complication of Joe Maxwell to deal with.

Addressing Foster’s still form, he said, “Fuck you for that.”

He used the paddle against a tree root to push the canoe away from the copse, then executed a one-eighty and headed for the dock with the shed where he would return the canoe.

He’d barely registered the splashing sound before Foster surged up out of the water and clouted him in the side of his head with a length of a fallen tree branch. It struck him in his jawbone, just in front of his ear. It stunned him. It also hurt like fucking hell.

Instinctively, he bellowed in pain and reached out for the jagged limb before Foster could wield it again. But Rusty missed, succeeding only in scraping the palms of his hands on the rough bark.

Foster, teeth bared and clenched, took another swipe with the natural club and caught Rusty just beneath his rib cage. Yowling, he bent double in an instinctual effort to protect the soft tissue from further assault. Taking advantage of Rusty’s position, Foster grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him out of the canoe and into the water.

Rusty tried to catch hold of the side of the rocking canoe, but Foster kicked it out of his reach and sent it gliding across the surface, then relaunched his attack on Rusty.

They thrashed and splashed, kicked and clawed, each trying to gain solid footing amid the network of gnarled roots both above the surface and below. The soles of Rusty’s boots couldn’t gain traction on the slimy lake bottom, and he fell hard, landing in a sculpted formation of cypress knees. A lightning bolt of pain sizzled up his left arm, went through his chest, and straight up into his brain. When it struck, he screamed.

But when Foster came at him from behind, he fought with a vengeance to stand, despite the agony and uselessness of his left arm. His right arm was working, though, and he jabbed his elbow backward into Foster’s injured throat.